


Maelstrom

by purple_cube



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hand to help lift you out of the vortex is a precious thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maelstrom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dreamwidth comm fic_promptly, for the prompt "our memories can be inviting, but some are altogether mighty frightening" from the song Don't Speak by No Doubt.
> 
> Additional note (December 2013): I re-read Mockingjay recently and realized that I had taken Peeta's Real or Not Real game from it without noticing...so I want to credit Suzanne Collins and The Hunger Games Trilogy.

 

After New York, and after the Chitauri, Clint and Natasha head back to SHIELD headquarters. They go through the usual routine: debrief with Fury, then Medical, and then Psych.

 

He has enough experience to play the game, to toe the line with just enough of a concerned expression to convey the image that he recognizes the enormity of whatever event has occurred and how it will affect him. His sessions are more frequent and last for longer than usual, but he knows that this is the drill for his particular situation – _psychological hijacking_ , he thinks is one of the acceptable phrases. He remembers all of this from Natasha’s first year at SHIELD.

 

“And how are you today, Clint?”

 

“Better,” he says with a feigned smile. “You know, I looked in the mirror this morning, and for the first time in a long while, I recognized the face staring back at me. I feel more like myself every day.”

 

His evaluator – Dr. Evelyn Bennett, _but please, call her Eve_ – cocks her head in surprise, and he thinks that he’s gone too far. “Well, maybe that’s a little optimistic,” he continues hastily. “Let’s just say that I didn’t feel quite as disgusted as I usually do when I see my reflection.”

 

Now he receives a sympathetic nod, and recognizes that he’s back in the safe zone. “That’s good progress,” she reassures him with bright eyes, evidently just as pleased with herself as she is with him.

 

He knows not to push it any further. Now is the time to switch to a more mundane topic; a movie he saw at the weekend, or something mildly amusing that he came across during his weekly grocery shop. Nothing too personal. Something…normal.

 

So he talks about his neighbor for the remainder of their hour, and of fictional meetings between them in their apartment building. Eve nods appreciatively and makes noises of agreement at all of the appropriate places, so he assumes that he has at least done this right.

 

And he always makes sure to flash his widest smile at her as he gets up from his chair to leave. He glances back as he reaches to shut the door behind him, catching a glimpse of the good doctor’s pen scribbling away on her notepad.

 

*

 

“How did you do it, Nat?” he asks her later. “Did you do it their way? Are they right?”

 

“No,” she says with a small shake of her head. “At least, not for me. I did it my own way.”

 

“Teach me.” It’s not a whisper, but it’s close.

 

They’re sat facing each at the small table in the kitchen of her apartment. She traces the handle of her mug, the contents now cold. She brings it to her lips and takes a sip anyway.

 

“You play a game with yourself,” she confesses quietly as she rests the mug back on the table. “You take in every little detail around you, whether you’re awake or asleep. And for every little thing, you run, well, I guess you could call it a risk assessment. Identify it, calculate the threat it poses to you, and always be on your guard. Assess what’s real. And what’s not.”

 

“Show me.”

 

“The coffee,” she starts, jerking her head in its direction. “Where did it come from? Did you make it? Do you remember me making it? Is it hot or cold? Is it a weapon?”

 

“I remember watching you make it,” he responds with confidence. “It’s cold, so it won’t scold. But the ceramic will break into shards easily enough. Besides,” he finishes with an admiring smile, “ _Anything_ is a weapon in your hands.”

 

“So you’re confident that the mug is real? That I’m real?”

 

Clint nods. “Real.”

 

“Okay."

 

She jerks her head abruptly, as if straining to hear a sound in the hallway outside. His gaze drifts towards the entrance of the apartment, trying to either validate or disprove her cause for discomfort.

 

When he looks at her again, his attention is claimed by the thick blade that rests loosely in her hand, glistening under the light of the single bulb that dangles directly above them.

 

“What is it?” she asks with a neutral expression, one that even he can’t unmask.

 

“The knife. You didn’t have it earlier.”

 

Confusion clouds her face. “Sure I did.”

 

“No.” He remembers her hand caressing the coffee mug. But he can’t recall what her other hand – the one that is now holding the knife – was doing at that time.

 

And yet. “No. No, you definitely didn’t.”

 

She shakes her head, her uneasiness reminding him of Eve during one of their earlier sessions, when he had tried to convey exactly how he felt with perhaps a little too much brutal honesty.

 

“But it’s been on the table the entire time, Clint.” She directs his attention to the knife block that sits on the nearest counter top. “I took it from there while I brought my coffee across, along with an apple.”

 

His scrutiny rotates between the blade, her face and the knife block on the counter top. He works methodically through their activities during the last half hour. “I came in just after eight. You went to the bedroom for a few minutes while I checked a message on my cell phone. Then you entered the kitchen and made your coffee. I was moments behind you, and I’ve been sat here the entire time. I would have seen you take the knife from the block.”

 

“So…real or not?”

 

“Not.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“The knife, it’s a little too wide to fit in the second slot of that block” he continues. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I would expect a blade of that size to be one of the larger ones in a typical knife block, so it would be positioned further towards the opposite end. I think that that’s a blade that you keep taped to the underside of this table. I do the same, after all.”

 

He grows in confidence as he speaks. “You’ve probably been trying to loosen the tape the entire time that we’ve been sat here, slowly, so that I wouldn’t hear the noise. The empty slot of that knife block, well, I remember that there were three apples in the fruit bowl yesterday. Now there’s two. My guess is that you used the missing knife to cut the apple and left it in the sink. You can’t have eaten the apple now. There’s no core lying around, and you haven’t left your seat once, so you can’t have thrown it away.”

 

Natasha gives him the smallest of smiles. These are the ones that he treasures the most.

 

“Good.”

 

*

 

Fury is real.

 

Coulson is not.

 

Until one day, he is, and it takes almost all of Clint’s strength not to strike out at either – or both – of those men.

 

His mind flashes the word _real_ relentlessly for an entire week, Coulson’s first week back at SHIELD. It takes an entire week for him to truly believe what his eyes – and his mind – are telling him.

 

“It was a cheap trick,” he mutters as he follows Natasha into her apartment. “I’m pretty sure that faking death to motivate your employees is _not_ in any SHIELD handbook that I read.”

 

“It worked,” is the simple reply.

 

“It was still a shitty thing to do.”

 

She doesn’t argue with that.

 

*

 

Loki is not real.

 

The pressure of the Staff as it prods at his chest feels real, the brilliant blue light piercing deep into his soul until it is all that he can see. The swirling darkness that follows and engulfs him feels real. The impenetrable black that surrounds him, imprisons him as he becomes a distant spectator in his own life, certainly feels real.

 

The fear and desperation in Natasha’s eyes as his hands tighten around her neck seems real too.

 

He wakes with sweat dripping from his forehead. Swiping at it with the back of his hand, he sits up in the bed, taking in all of the objects that he can see in the dim light. The wardrobe, the dresser, the partially open door. The pair of jeans and the black tee shirt that he left draped across the armchair before dropping onto the bed.

 

These are real.

 

Loki is _not_ real.

 

And Natasha’s death at his hands is not real.

 

*

 

She notices, of course.

 

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

 

“No,” he responds quietly.

 

“I’ll stay over tonight.” It’s not a question.

 

“It’s fine, Nat –“ He starts to protest, but is cut short by a sharp glare. If there’s one thing he had to learn quickly when they first started working together, it was when to recognize that he was defeated. “Alright.”

 

He wakes at dawn. Same dream, same outcome. Only this time, Natasha’s fingers grip his arm tight enough to send pain shooting to his brain, vanquishing Loki and all that emerged with him during Clint’s dream.

 

Eventually, his breathing slows enough to allow him to speak.

 

“Not real.”

 

She nods in agreement, easing her grip only a fraction.

 

*

 

There is no catalyst when it happens, when they finally sleep together.  It just happens.

 

She climbs into his bed, as she has done on so many occasions. And she reaches for him, draping an arm over his. None of this is new.

 

What is new is the leg that slowly, smoothly, snakes on top of his. The gentle but undeniable caress of her palm on his chest. The look of unquestionable _want_ on her face.

 

Even then, he can’t bring himself to reach out for her. He can’t take the risk that he might be wrong. That she isn’t real.

 

When the realization hits her, she doesn’t frown or roll her eyes in frustration like he expects. Her hand simply lifts from his chest and reaches up to cup his jaw. She brings him to her and kisses his lips gently, with much more tenderness than he would anticipate from her. His mind screams the word _real_ over and over again until he deepens the kiss – can’t stop himself – and closes the gap between their bodies.

 

They take their time, exploring each other as if they’ve only just met. Hands wander and mouths explore until she can’t stand it any longer. She guides him, not so gentle now, and he yields willingly to all that is asked of him, giving that and much, much more. 

 

Later, he lies on his side facing her, taking in the curves of her body as she rests on her front, exposed except for the thin cotton sheet that is covering only part of her legs.

 

“Nat?” he asks quietly, taking a moment before he returns her gaze. “What is this?”

 

She watches him for a long time, eyes bright.

 

“Real.”

 


End file.
